


Driven to Madness

by LuciniaTurner



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Angst and Humor, Car Chases, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Racing, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 04:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8190022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciniaTurner/pseuds/LuciniaTurner
Summary: Sherlock Holmes finds himself in need of a particular service. Will Anthea McAlister be able to provide him with exactly what he needs? Or perhaps a little bit more? After all...geniuses are rare. Junkies, however, are not. (Not a drug story. Promise.) Rated M for Mature in later chapters.





	1. Prologue

When one desires silence or solitude, central London is not necessarily the first place to come to mind. The cafe was as noisy and crowded as she had predicted, the chime over the door jingling almost incessantly. But her nimble fingers still danced across a thin laptop keyboard, each keystroke inaudible beneath the din. Anthea’s eyes drifted up from the computer screen to the window across from her table and past it, her fingers continuing their furious ballet as her gaze slid along the side panel of a shiny, new Porsche 911 parked on the far curb. She lingered there for only a moment before returning to her screen, using one hand to lift a mug of coffee to her lips while the other continued to type. Silly thing, she thought, rolling her eyes. The door jingled again.

His appearance was so abrupt, Anthea would have thought he had simply dropped out of the air and into the seat across from her. She would have thought that if the entire table hadn’t shifted a full inch toward her with a noisy thud, nearly upsetting her coffee and sloshing some of the tan liquid over the rim to form a sticky ring on the wooden surface. A pair of knees made contact with hers. Annoyed, she quickly checked that her laptop was still dry before looking up at her sudden visitor. A pair of startlingly blue eyes stared back at her. 

“Hello,” 

Anthea blinked, her mouth closing slightly as her eyes dipped down to the navy blue scarf doubled about his neck and up again to his face. She politely forewent a cross word for the intrusion on her already limited privacy and went back to typing. It was several seconds before she finally forced herself to reply with a quiet “Hello.”

Silence descended upon the table while Anthea typed away, fully aware that the man was still sitting across from her, staring, his forearms rested lightly on the surface beyond the screen of her computer. Gradually, warmth began to spread upward from her neck and into her face as her fingers slowed. The man did not move nor speak, but she could feel his presence like a heavy blanket. Finally, she dropped her hands to the edge of the keyboard and looked up in exasperation. “Can I help you?” she asked a bit more waspishly than she had intended. 

Any harshness to her tone seemed to go unnoticed as the man’s eyebrows bounced once and he turned his head slightly to glance out at the rest of the cafe. “That remains to be seen,” he replied, his voice carrying a note of deep baritone that made it possible for him to speak quietly and still be heard. Anthea nearly jumped as his attention suddenly returned to her in full force, those blue eyes staring so directly into hers, he might as well have been attempting to see straight through her. The right corner of his lips twitched in what she may have mistaken as a grin. “May I see your hands?” he asked, leaning forward slightly in an effort to peek over the top of her computer screen. 

Anthea leaned back in her chair, her eyebrows furrowed in blossoming annoyance and confusion. Her answer was immediate. “No,” She knew he was too far from her to see her hands without leaving his chair, no matter how far he leaned, so she kept them in place. She shifted uncomfortably, painfully aware of the pair of bony knees digging into hers. 

A heavy, somewhat irritated sounding sigh arose from the man across from her, his eyes rolling. One black gloved finger reached out and abruptly, but gently, pushed her laptop shut atop her hands, trapping them between the screen and keyboard. Anthea gasped quietly, glancing to her left at the rest of the cafe, hoping someone was seeing this and would interfere. An older man rustled his copy of The Daily Mail but did not look over. The finger remained in place atop the computer as he spoke, applying pressure but not enough to hurt. 

“Fine,” the man sighed. “I was going for ‘polite’, but if you insist-” He paused to take a deep breath in through tightly pursed lips, his eyes drifting upward before falling back to hers and locking into place. Then words exploded. “You’ve been driving aggressively for no less than ten years. You type at a near inhuman speed, possibly approaching one-hundred and twenty, maybe thirty, miles per hour and you’ve been at that a while too, judging by your ability to type and eye-rape the black Porsche across the street simultaneously. You dislike the car and are currently writing a column you hope will drop sales or even put a halt to production all together. Should I go on?” 

He said this all very rapidly and without pausing for breath. Anthea’s mouth moved but no sound came out; this appeared to be the response the man had been hoping for as his eyes shone with a more intense fervor. “Oh, good,” he said brightly. And he did indeed continue. “You live alone and your hair is brown but not naturally. It was dyed three, no...four weeks ago, and done so by yourself judging by the small, faded streak underneath you seem to have missed. You shampoo it sparingly with quality product in order to keep the blistering redhead out of sight. And your nails-” The man’s eyes narrowed as his finger applied just a bit more pressure to the screen. Anthea winced and wiggled her pinky though it still did not hurt. “Tell me,” his voice dropped. “What color are they painted?” 

Finally, Anthea’s voice returned and did so quickly as she replied, “They’re not,” through gritted teeth, using her wrists to force the lid of her computer back open, thus freeing her fingers. The man seemed ready for this however, as he reached around the screen with both hands and took hers within his own, his eyes scanning her ten fingernails so rapidly it nearly made her dizzy to watch. 

“Good,” he growled in praise, smirking as he turned her hands over within his, flicking his gaze across her palms. He added in an undertone, “You’d be amazed how many women can’t remember the color of their own nails,” 

Heat returned to Anthea’s cheeks as she wrenched her hands from his grip and stuffed them into her lap, glowering at him. “Your point?” she asked rather viciously. 

The man grinned, clearly enjoying this exchange. “Your nails aren’t manicured and haven’t been for some time, but they’re short and kept that way, though not by you...” His voice trailed off as his eyes actually narrowed, his eyelids squinting until only a sliver of crystalline blue was visible. “Beneath the edges, there’s a considerable amount of what I would guess to be a rather disgusting mix of dirt and motor oil or...engine grease, whatever it’s called. Judging by that and the fact that you wear no rings nor jewelry near your hands, you obviously work with them frequently and, just a shot in the dark here, I’m guessing you were last elbow-deep in that Porsche you’re ripping apart in your article.” 

Anthea slapped her computer shut with such force, her coffee mug rattled against the wood and several patrons glanced over in polite alarm. The man across from her did not so much as flinch. He simply grinned as she glared daggers at him. “What in the hell is your point?” she asked, her voice lowered, teeth clenched. 

His grin suddenly disappeared as though it had never been there, and he leaned forward, his voice lowering to an octave almost inaudible to the human ear. “You...are a racing driver.” 

Anthea blinked, her annoyance flooding out of her while confusion and surprise came rushing in. It was several long moments before she spoke. “How could you possibly know that?” she finally asked, her voice lowered to almost a whisper as her eyes flickered back and forth between his, trying to see in him what he could so easily see in her. 

This lasted only a second or two before the man was swiftly on his feet again, buttoning his long black coat across his narrow waist, blue eyes slithering across the cafe as he sighed in an almost bored fashion. “Come by for an interview with my colleague and I, and perhaps I’ll...elaborate or something,” he replied airily, turning to leave. 

Before she could stop herself, Anthea spoke after him. “Wait, interview for what?!” she demanded. “And that’s a pathetic trick. You obviously know me from my reviews, and if you don’t, you’ll certainly look me up the moment you leave.” 

The man turned back to the table, his eyebrows furrowed in what appeared to be confusion, though Anthea felt she knew better than to believe that. “Interview for a position, of course. Isn’t that what they call it? Interviewing?” He paused, glancing down to pull the edge of his black leather glove up into the sleeve of his coat. “And why would I spoil it by researching you?” The blue eyes glittered. “You’ve already given me plenty to be getting on with, don’t you think?” 

Anthea opened her mouth, but thought better of it and closed it again, apparently to the man’s satisfaction, as that somehow sinister yet deceptively charming grin appeared on his face again. 

“The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street,” he said. There was a pause before he continued, smirking over his shoulder. “I’d give you directions, but you don’t really need them, do you?” His coat gave a faint flapping sound as he turned to the door. It jingled as he pushed it open. “Don’t be late.” 

…………………………………………………………...

A/N: WELCOME!!! This is my new account, this is my new story and I would LOVE to know what you think! I have sooooo very much planned for this little adventure but I’d like to see what sort of response this prologue receives before I dive headfirst into posting regularly. My name is Lucinia Turner (not my real name obviously but nevertheless, call me Lucy) This is the first Sherlock fic I have written, though I have been writing fan fiction and posting it for a VERY long time (since 2008). As mentioned in my pathetic little profile, I have another account that has a great deal of stories featuring other characters not related to Sherlock. I wanted to post this under a completely different name to prevent any spillage or bleeding from my other stories. I was immediately drawn to Sherlock as a character because of, well…I don’t need to tell any of you. We’re all fans here. But smart is indeed the new sexy. 

Also- any blatantly obvious mistake is not a mistake. I tend to leave Easter eggs so keep your eyes peeled (get it?). All will be resolved in time! So I hope you enjoyed this. Reviews, like tips, are always appreciated, but never expected. Thanks! -LT

P.S.- The name ‘Anthea’, is in NO way related to the alias Mycroft’s assistant gave John in S1:E1. I really just like the name so I chose it for my OC. So don’t read too far into that. It honestly is just a pretty name. Cheers!


	2. The Game Begins

Sherlock entered the flat at 221B and removed his coat, scarf and gloves, before walking over to drop heavily into his usual leather chair beside the currently empty fireplace. A very cheeky grin was plastered to his face. John sat across from him, forehead furrowed in concentration as he typed so furiously on his laptop, one might assume it had done him a great personal wrong. For several moments, Sherlock stared at him, his grin fading slowly until it vanished altogether with a roll of eyes, and he sighed, wiggling his bare fingers noisily against the arms of his chair. His partner in solving crime did not look up, but instead continued what could only be another ridiculous blog entry. Finally, the detective took a deep breath. 

“Why, yes, John, I AM looking rather pleased with myself,” Sherlock practically shouted, his deep voice raised, shattering the quiet calm. 

The doctor across from him jumped with such force, his laptop nearly slipped between his legs, only to be caught haphazardly by the top of the screen. Watson sighed, closing his eyes briefly as he righted the device on his lap. A forced, tight-lipped smile met his face a moment later as he finally looked across to his friend. “You’re looking rather pleased with yourself, Sherlock. What ever did you accomplish this time?” he asked in a very rehearsed-sounding voice. 

Sherlock pressed the tips of his long, spidery fingers together in front of his lips, grinning from behind them. “Thank you for noticing, John,” he replied, inclining his head slightly in mock gratitude. “I’ve found something very valuable.” 

The prematurely aged face across from him went from flat with annoyance to alight with interest in record timing. “Have you?” John asked, closing his computer to sit up a bit more straight in his cushy armchair. He stared at Sherlock, clearly awaiting a reply or explanation. When none came, he shrugged, giving a vague shake of his head. “Well, what is it? Or...where is it?” he asked, eyes now dancing about Sherlock’s person as though expecting to see some giant gem glittering from the edge of his pocket or up his shirt sleeve. 

Sherlock rose from his chair quickly, crossing to the window as his hands moved to link together behind his back. “Oh, it’s not an item,” he answered, grinning at the wall with his back still turned to John. He found great amusement in how much it frustrated his friend when he was purposely vague. But time was of the essence so he continued without enjoying the torment as long as he usually did. “It’s a person.” There was a light noise of tongue against teeth behind him as John made a face of surprise that Sherlock could see very clearly in his mind without having to turn around. He continued staring at the window but heard John rise from his chair to hastily begin straightening things in the living room. 

“A person,” John repeated, fluffing a Union Jack pillow and billowing a small plume of dust into the air in the process. “You have a new case? Are we expecting a client then?” 

Sherlock turned to face him, sliding his hands into the pockets of his black trousers. “No, not a case, nor a client,” he answered, regretfully ignoring the urge to keep John in the dark until she arrived. He leaned forward a bit, his eyebrows bouncing. “An applicant.” He knew his face must look so damned arrogant but he so did not care. 

John was then in the kitchen, hastily stowing a jar of whole human fingernails in a cabinet. He rolled his eyes, his short frame coming to a stop to face the detective. His fists made contact with his hips. “A wha- applicant? For what?” he asked, cocking his head. Across the room, Sherlock hopped lightly into his chair, his long legs tucked awkwardly under him as he peered over the top of his knees. John nodded with a smirk, turning his back again to continue his quick de-grunging of the kitchen. “So you’re finally sacking me then, is that it?” 

Sherlock let out a heavy groan of a sigh as he extended his limbs and stretched out in the chair comfortably. “No, John, there’s still some use to you,” he answered, absently flicking away a tiny, black ball of coat fuzz clinging to the knee of his pants. John frowned as he entered the room. Sherlock’s proclivity for sarcasm was sometimes a bit too keen. His eyes closed as his counterpart sat down across from him. A soft clapping sound told him he had just clasped his hands together in front of him, between his knees; the way he usually did when about to ask a question. 

“So, this...applicant,” he began. “What did they apply for?” There was a pause. “Actually, first off, who are they?”

Right on cue, the growl of a turbo charged engine came crawling through the window and grew in volume as a very expensive car trundled along Baker Street below them, approaching at a moderate, legal, boring speed. Sherlock’s eyes popped open, the pupils shrinking rapidly within the irises. “It sounds like you’re about to find out.”

Two stories below, Anthea stepped out of the Porsche at the curb, green eyes fixed on the tall building looming over her. A shiny black door bearing worn brass numbers stated ‘221B’ across the sidewalk from her; a matching brass knocker hung crooked beneath. She shook her head, swinging her worn leather bag over her shoulder as she stuffed the pointlessly bulky key to the Porsche in the back pocket of her jeans. I must be absolutely out of my mind.

The knocker to 221B Baker Street banged against the heavy wooden door, echoing in the flat beyond like she had taken a hammer to it instead. She winced, stepping back; that had sounded too aggressive, too eager. It was then that her eyes drifted to the right where three faintly glowing buttons, undoubtedly operating bells, sat one atop the other. Anthea rolled her eyes, her shoulders sagging. 

The door swung inward, groaning on the hinges, and in the way stood a short, older woman, smiling warmly. Anthea felt a small flush of relief; she had been expecting someone taller and a bit more intimidating. She held up one hand, backing down one level on the steps behind her. “Oh, I apologize, ma’am, I must have the wrong address,” she explained, her eyes once again darting to the numbers on the door. She was certain she did not have the wrong address. “I was looking for-”

“Sherlock Holmes, yes?” the kindly woman asked, her eyes alight, her small frame practically quivering as she gave Anthea a quick up and down glance. This did not go unnoticed. Anthea nodded, feeling more and more foolish by the second. If this was that man’s mother… “Oh, no, dear, you’re in exactly the right place,” she went on, gesturing for Anthea to step inside. She did, but hesitantly, still debating on whether or not she should make a break for the Porsche and find out exactly what the top speed was. “I’m Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock’s landlady,” the woman was explaining somewhere behind her whilst closing the heavy door with a thud that echoed up the narrow staircase directly ahead of her. 

Anthea pulled her eyes away from the stairs to return the smile. “Oh,” she replied, still wishing she had come to the wrong place or that the invitation had been a practical joke. Regardless, she held out her hand to shake Mrs. Hudson’s. “Anthea,” she introduced herself as their hands met. “I was asked-”

Mrs. Hudson jumped as though she had suddenly remembered something and pointed at the staircase with one hand while the other rested gently on Anthea’s shoulder in a comforting sort of way. She got the distinct impression that the woman was rather used to welcoming anxious, nervous people into her home. “He’s right up those stairs, go on. Not to worry. He can help you,” Her voice had become solemn and gentle but the nudge she gave Anthea toward the staircase was firm enough to unlock her protesting knees. 

“Thank you,” Anthea heard herself say as she began to ascend the stairs, one at the time, wincing every time one of them creaked or moaned beneath her black shoes. With each step, the open door at the top of the case became more visible, revealing more of the room beyond the further she climbed. An admittedly ugly, faded gray leather couch appeared, newspapers and magazines littering the far end. The short coffee table before it bore much of the same detritus, along with a mug, a half empty, dusty glass of water and, Anthea had to glance twice at it, a pair of antique French binoculars. Her eyes darted to the floor where a folded and re-folded piece of paper had been wedged beneath one of the legs, keeping the table level. These observations were a nice distraction from the fact that she had absolutely no idea what she was walking into. Though the moment she crossed the threshold, the nerves immediately returned. She balled her hand into a fist at her side. 

The flat smelled like it had existed for centuries, inhabited only by men as there was a distinctly musty scent of age mingled with the telltale stench of ‘eau de’ bachelor’. There was not time to take in much else about the room however, as she turned in to find herself standing in the middle of a flat, facing a fireplace and two chairs, occupied by two men, one of whom she had already had the pleasure of ‘meeting’. Sherlock Homles’ face was absent of expression but Anthea was again deprived of taking in anything else about his appearance as the other of the two men immediately rose and crossed to her, smiling as he held out his hand. Anthea noticed a hollow look behind his eyes, despite the warmth in his smile, but she paid this no mind as she returned the expression and took his hand to shake it. 

“Hello,” The man started to speak. “I’m-”

“-not important,” A deep voice finished the introduction. Across the room, the man she had encountered in the cafe was sitting in a chair that very closely matched the ugly sage sofa. He pulled back the sleeve of his gray shirt, peering at his watch as late afternoon, clouded London sunlight cast his dark brown hair a shade of black. He took a quick breath and let it escape through his nose. “You’re late.” 

The man who had risen turned to look back at Sherlock, his expression silently reproachful for the rudeness, though Anthea was prepared for it. She shrugged as nonchalantly as she could beneath her blanket of nerves and let her eyes bounce around the flat, seeing everything, but her mind was too busy to notice any one thing in particular. Her weight shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, seeing how you never gave me a time, one could argue that I’m early,” she replied, ignoring the twitch at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. 

He rose from the leather seat and smoothly crossed the room to a table so covered with clutter and mess that it could barely be recognized as furniture, were it not for the four legs and the chairs surrounding it. Anthea fought an urge to take a step away from him as he passed her. “Correct,” he began, his voice raised slightly as he rifled through papers upon the desk. “I did not provide you with a time, but I did give you an address,” His search ended abruptly as he stood up straight and turned to look down at her. “And here you are.” The corners of his eyes wrinkled in a grin, but only for a split second before his expression was flat and serious again. “The next time a stranger approaches you and asks you to come to an address, don’t. You got lucky.” 

Anthea’s dark amber eyebrows furrowed as she turned to face him fully. From the corner of her vision, she could see the other man stammering wordlessly as he looked back and forth between the two. Her response was quick and precise, as she had rehearsed it during the drive from the cafe to Baker Street. “You also gave me your name, Mr. Holmes, and I was sitting in front of a computer,” Sherlock began moving at once, crossing the room away from her to the kitchen, but Anthea turned to follow his direction, raising her voice to be heard while a kettle banged the top of a stove. “The infamous Sherlock Holmes,” The tone of mock reverence was very difficult to keep out of her voice and a smile breached her face as she felt the upper hand shift in her favor. Finally, she turned her attention back to the shorter man still standing next to her. His forehead was furrowed as he stared somewhat vacantly at her, his face a mix of confusion, surprise and something Anthea could not put her finger on. She held out her hand to shake his. “And Dr. Watson, I presume,” she said, her smile widening. 

Dr. Watson blinked as if coming out of a stupor and he shook her hand with a nod. “Er- yes, that’s me,” he replied, still staring oddly at her as though she had just sprouted a third eyeball in the middle of her forehead. 

Anthea nodded, glancing over his shoulder to the kitchen beyond where Sherlock seemed to be making a right chore of putting on tea. “I found your blog,” she commented, patting her bag, where her small laptop was stowed. “You have gift for writing, Doctor,” 

Dr. John Watson seemed taken aback by her compliment but smiled nonetheless. “Thank you,” he said, his weight shifting. There was another pause. “I’m so sorry, but who are you? Sherlock didn’t-”

“Anthea,” she replied, purposely omitting her surname. “Your...colleague dropped in for a visit and asked me to come for an interview of some sort,” She paused when Sherlock reappeared from the kitchen. She heard Dr. Watson open his mouth to speak but she spared him the question by adding, “For what, I don’t yet know.” Another quick shadow of a smirk flashed across the detective’s face as he approached. 

He passed her again, this time reaching for one of the chairs at the messy table, lifting it and moving toward the center of the room where he set it down firmly. The legs made contact with the floor with a rather dramatic boom that echoed off the wood beneath the rug and aged walls of the flat. “Sit, please,” he instructed over his shoulder, moving once more to finally settle himself in his own leather armchair. Dr. Watson seemed to take this as a cue, as he too moved toward the last comfortable, unoccupied seat in the room. 

At last, both men were seated and looking up at her expectantly, though Anthea did not move at first. Instead, she let her bag slide off of her shoulder and onto the floor while her hands gripped the back of the plain wooden chair he had set out for her. She leaned on it slightly, her nerves ebbing away slowly. “Right,” she began, glancing down at her accurately described, filthy fingernails. She curled her fingers to hide them from the view of the detective. “Well, before I do that, I’ve got some questions.” 

Sherlock’s eyes rolled to the top of his head and he sank more deeply into his chair, folding his hands together in the style of prayer. “Naturally,” His voice rumbled. 

Across from him, Watson raised one finger. “Actually, so have I,” he added, glancing back and forth between Anthea and Sherlock. 

A loud groan of impatience echoed in the room and Sherlock unfolded his hands to run them over his face. “Ugh, when do you not have questions, John...” His voice asked, muffled from behind his hands. He suddenly dropped them into his lap, his eyebrows raised in expectation as he looked from John to Anthea and back again. “Well? Go on, ladies first,”   
Anthea straightened her posture and inhaled but paused, frowning in indignation as Sherlock held up one long finger and extended it in her direction, signaling silence. His face turned and focused on Dr. Watson across from him. “Yes, John?” He grinned maliciously as the doctor shook his head, fidgeting with a small notebook and pencil. He muttered something about ‘childish’ under his breath. Sherlock’s eyes were still gleaming as he turned to look at Anthea, apparently satisfied that he had silenced his partner for the time being. “Please, do sit, and I’ll answer.”

Slowly, Anthea rounded the chair and sat on it, forcefully ignoring the way it creaked beneath her, splitting the already tense silence in the flat. Sherlock watched her movement like a hawk eyeing a mouse. Anthea purposely avoided his gaze, unsure why she found it so difficult to look at him directly after their encounter in the cafe. Unaware that this predicament was about to become so much worse, she shifted uncomfortably as the bulky keyless fob to the Porsche dug into her backside from her back pocket. A twinge of annoyance flitted through her; she might as well have been sitting on half a brick. She would have to remember to include that in her review. Quickly, in the hope of her movement going unnoticed, she leaned to the side and removed it from her pocket, hastily dropping it on top of her bag on the floor beside the chair. Sherlock’s eyes followed the movement but he did not comment and instead placed a carefully feigned look of interest on his face. 

“Alright, well,” she began, rubbing her hands along the legs of her jeans. Why were her palms sweating? Hadn’t the nerves gone? She continued, resigning to keeping her fingers firmly interlocked in her lap. “First, how did you find me? Were you following me?” 

A vague bark of a laugh erupted from Sherlock as he glanced at Watson with a look that plainly suggested the doctor should have found this question as offensive as he did. “Following you?” he repeated incredulously. “No, not hardly. I was window shopping.” 

It was John’s turn to speak. “Sorry,” he interrupted, taking both Sherlock and Anthea’s attention as he held up his short, over-used pencil. “Window shopping?” 

Sherlock shrugged, looking back and forth between his applicant and partner with frustrated confusion. “Yes, window shopping. Next?” 

Anthea stared at him, choosing to stare directly at the bridge of his nose, avoiding his eyes. “So you simply saw me in that cafe window and decided to come in, interrupt my wo-” she reworded quickly. “-what I was doing, because of...why?” 

Again, Sherlock shrugged as though the answers to these questions should have been as obvious as a zebra in a herd of horses. He held up his hands, frowning at John, as if hoping he could appeal to the idiot in the room. “I’ve been looking for someone to fill a position, so I went looking and I found what I was looking for,” He paused, his frown deepening when John’s face remained blank. “Am I speaking English? I sometimes switch to Slavic without realizing it. Please inform me if I have done so.” 

John shook his head, returning to his notebook. “Nope, still English,” he muttered. 

But Anthea was growing impatient where the doctor had clearly grown accustomed to this. “Alright, so you’re telling me you were just walking along, glanced in a window, saw me there, realized I was what you’re looking for and came in for a chat?” she asked, the volume and pitch of her voice rising. 

“Yep,” he answered in that deep voice of his, putting a dramatic popping noise on the end of the word. 

Watson sighed but Anthea was still deeply confused. “But how did you-”

“OH, my God,” Sherlock suddenly said loudly, rising from his chair to begin wandering the room. “There was a very expensive car across the street from the cafe; a Porsche. But not just a Porsche, a brand new Porsche that has not yet been released for purchase by the public,” Just as they had before in the cafe, words exploded out of him in rapid succession. Anthea focused to keep up and simultaneously watch him as he moved about the room, gesturing and unstraightening things as he went. He circled the back of her chair and she nearly jumped when his rich voice sounded next to her ear. He spoke the first word but then moved on. “You were sitting in that cafe, looking at the car repeatedly, but not as a whole as most people do. You were looking at individual features on the car, then typing. Looking, then typing, over and over. From that, I deduced that you were writing about the car. Motoring journalist. Fairly obvious, I admit.” 

Anthea attempted to interrupt. “Alright, but how-”

Sherlock took his chance to do the same. He leaned into her line of vision quite suddenly, his eyebrows raised, intensely blue eyes inches from her green ones. “How did I know you disliked the car?” he finished her question and rose to resume his seat. A bitter grin appeared on his face. “No woman stares at a car like that with such distaste. A woman stares at a car like that then looks around for the man who owns it.” 

A light ‘tsk’ came from the armchair opposite him. “Sexist, Sherlock...” John muttered in an undertone without looking up from his notebook. 

Sherlock blinked at him before looking back to Anthea, a very fake smile on his face. “I mean...lucky guess,” he amended. 

Anthea ignored the rightfully labeled sexist comment for the time being, her curiosity once again pulling rank. “No, I was going to ask how you knew I’m a racing driver,” she corrected, staring daggers at him. 

There was a cough from the other armchair. “Sorry, a what?” 

Both Anthea and Sherlock ignored him. He nodded at her lap. “Your hands,” he answered, his feverish speech finally slowing. “I asked you if I could see them because I wanted to confirm the callouses I figured I would find there, between your thumb and forefinger,” He lifted his own hands to hold them in the air and mimic gripping a steering wheel. Anthea looked down, unlinking her fingers to rub them together, feeling for the callouses she had not even noticed herself. True enough, the skin of her palm and the web between her thumb and forefinger were coarse and rough to the touch. “Only someone who drives aggressively a majority of the time or has done so for an extended period would have them.”

Anthea flat out stared at him once again, speechless. She shook her head slightly. “That’s brilliant,” Her voice came out a little more than a whisper. 

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth tightened as he wiggled comfortably in his chair. “I know,” came his reply.

Silence flooded the flat while Anthea racked her brain for the rest of the questions she had stockpiled during the ride to Baker Street, but they had seemingly vanished over the past few minutes. Her mind was spinning. However, after a few moments of casting around, she found one. “And my hair-” 

Sherlock seemed ready for this as he did not even look over at her but motioned lazily with one hand in her general direction. “My dear, your head looks positively ablaze from your bright red roots. Hair grows a half inch per month on average. Your roots are roughly half an inch in length, so...”

Anthea shook her head, eyebrows furrowed in amazement. “I colored my hair a month ago,” She took her turn to finish his sentence. “And you were right. I do color it myself because I-”

“-live alone. I know,” Sherlock’s self-satisfied smile seemed almost more than he could contain, so instead, he looked over, his eyes traveling down the lower half of her body. At this point, Anthea did not care and made no attempt to stop him. Quite honestly, she wanted to see what else he could figure out about her. He squinted slightly, sniffed the air once, then settled back into his chair, tugging absently at the cuff of his shirt sleeve. “You’ve also got a cat. A calico, to be exact.”

Anthea tossed her hands in the air. “How the fuc-”

“Sorry to interrupt, but, Sherlock,” John spoke suddenly. Anthea was thankful for the interruption. Her previous choice of words was anything but ladylike. “What on earth has this got to do with us? So she’s a driver,” he held up a hand in silent apology for downplaying the career. “That’s fascinating but you implied you were looking to hire someone. I’m not seeing the connection.”

With a quick movement, Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, his baritone voice lowered, but not enough that Anthea could not hear him. “John, how many cabs have we had to pay for over the past few years? How many times have we needed to get somewhere or leave somewhere as quickly as possible and have no other means of doing so than in a cab that takes the longest and most obvious of all possible routes?” he asked all of this in a hushed but earnest voice, staring steadily at his flatmate, imploring him to see the reason and thought he had put into this decision. “This woman knows the streets of the city as well as I do and better than any cabbie out there.”

Anthea’s brain ground back into action and things began to fall into place, answers. “Wait-” she attempted to interrupt the conversation, but for all the notice they took of her, she may as well have been a hat stand. 

John shook his head. “I do know how to drive, Sherlock,” he replied, his own voice lowered to match the detective’s volume. 

Sherlock nodded impatiently, running one flustered hand through the front of his curly, side-parted hair. “As do I, John, but she-” his voice suddenly returned to normal volume as he extended his full arm to point directly at Anthea. “She knows how to drive.” Finally, he leaned back in the leather chair once again, letting his arm drop. “And that is exactly what I’m looking for-”

“-a driver.”

“-a chauffeur.”

Both Anthea and Sherlock finished his sentence in unison, her face blank with fresh annoyance and his, confused, as he looked over at her, frowning. “You’re looking for a chauffeur,” she repeated. “Someone to be at your beck and call, to transport you around London and God only knows where else for free.”

Sherlock’s scowl melted into nothingness as he rolled his eyes. “I said I was hiring, not looking for volunteers,” he corrected in a venomous tone, his glare lingering on hers for a few moments longer once John began to speak. 

“So you- or we rather, would be paying her?” the doctor asked, his eyebrows threatening to disappear into his carefully side-swept, dirty blonde hairline. 

Sherlock shrugged, again indicating that his answer should have been obvious. “Well, of course we would pay her,” he began. “I wouldn’t ask her to drive about London, or God only knows where else-” he spared Anthea an irritated glance for her words. “-like a maniac, possibly, no, definitely, risking her life for free, now would I?” 

There was a long pause following his words before John shook his head, placing his unused notebook on the arm of his worn armchair, to rub his forehead with two fingers. “You owe me about two and a half years worth of pay.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, flicking a few fingers at Watson dismissively. “You volunteered,” he growled. 

“Who’s to say I’m interested?” Anthea asked, her voice clear and steady. Judging by the way Sherlock gave a slight start at the sound of it, she wondered if he might have forgotten she was even in the room. 

Slowly, he turned his head to look at her while John did the same. His eyes narrowed. “You came,” he answered simply, motioning in her direction. “Here you sit. You said it yourself. You’re early. If you weren’t interested, you would not have come here after reading the blog of Dr. John H. Watson, nor the countless, ridiculous articles about myself,” He paused, gaze sharpening. “...no matter how curious you’d like to claim to be.”

For one absurd moment, Anthea wondered whether or not he had been reading her mind, but she shook it off and blinked at him, licking her lips, as they had gone very dry. “So...” she paused, hastily trying to think of a way to word her sentence without revealing anything to the brilliantly keen detective. “...if I-”

“-when you...” he corrected distractedly, examining his own fingernails. 

Anthea’s teeth met together in the back of her mouth. She ignored his interruption. “IF I decide to even consider this offer, how long have I got to make a final decision?” 

Sherlock exhaled through his nose, abandoning his fingers to look at his watch. His eyes darted about the face for several long moments before he looked up. “Five minutes,” he replied. 

Anthea blinked. “Five minutes?” 

“Four minutes,” he revised. “The ticking hand was at fifty-eight.”

Green eyes darted back and forth between the detective and doctor, her heart beginning to race, warmth spreading into her fingertips, down her legs and into her feet. She could practically feel the vibration from a powerful, imaginary engine running beneath her hands, the thrill of adrenaline coursing through her veins as she envisioned, even felt, in some odd sensory experience, the back end of a car slipping out around a corner. She could hear the squealing of slicked rubber on asphalt, echoing far off in the back of her mind, deep in the recesses of her memories. I am absolutely mad, she thought. But what came out of her mouth was, “I’ll do it.” 

This rather dramatic announcement was followed directly by...nothing. The detective was simply staring off into space. Even John looked to Sherlock for some sort of a response before looking back at Anthea, confused. “Er, Sherlock?” he said quietly. “She said she’ll do it.” 

As if prodded by an electric shock, Sherlock Holmes jumped back into life and clasped his hands together with a clap, rising abruptly from his chair to walk purposefully toward the desk beside the chair on which Anthea sat. “Of course she will!” he exclaimed, shuffling papers, fingers flying as his eyes scanned each document they passed. “That leaves only one thing left to do,” he continued his search but did not elaborate. 

Anthea watched him, confused, her excitement ebbing away with the man’s eccentricity. More moments of silence passed before she finally broke it. “What else have I got to do?” she asked, staring up at the tall, dark-haired detective. 

Finally, he returned the gaze, his eyes alight with the thrill of the game. “You’ve got to pass your driving test, of course.” 

 

……………………………………………..

A/N: Alright so that was the first official chapter! This story is quite literally going places. I have it posted on Tumblr now as well, so if you prefer to read over there, feel free to visit luciniaturner.tumblr.com. I’ll obviously continue to post here, but the Tumblr will contain pictures of Anthea, Sherlock and other characters, as well as music I’ve chosen for each chapter and extra little blurbs here and there. So head on over and follow or at least give it a glance if you’d like! Please leave a review if you’d like to, as I’d absolutely love to know what everyone is thinking of it so far! Regardless, thanks for reading and stay tuned for the next one!


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